You Can (Not) Advance
by Vagabond J
Summary: When a cat dies under their watch, a young medicine cat is driven to the brink of insanity. Traumatized and haunted by the event, he departs his own Clan for another in hopes of escaping the nightmares that trail after him while the hope of everyone else is that it may heal his wounded soul in the process. But something's in this world linger with us stronger than others do.


It began with a lie.

"You'll be fine."

Whitepaw hadn't known it'd be a lie when he first said it, not up until the realization was made that the promise could never be kept. That was where the mistake was made. Not the lie itself, but the decision to continue the deceit when it became apparent things would never be fine again.

The words flowed from his mouth smooth as water then. That was how he always got them, with a steady and meaningful gaze. Things were made more personable through eye contact. Cats felt as though you understood their plight and cared. A simple mental trick through stimulation, nothing more, but it comforted them nonetheless.

Reassurance was a good thing though, right? That was what he'd been taught, and what reason did he have to ever suspect otherwise? How could you go wrong by pacifying someone else's misgivings?

That someone in question was Foxpelt, a young and springy warrior newly appointed to the position. Throughout the Clan he was well known for two things: his bright red fur and unrivaled level of exuberance as he dove headfirst into anything without the slightest hint of hesitation in his step. It was how everything eventually went wrong for him.

Foxpelt, a hunting patrol, and encounter with an actual fox are what started it all. Quick and violent were how things unfolded. The patrol half drugged, half carried, the red warrior back to camp, a pool of blood trailing after them in their wake.

For his effort, Foxpelt wasn't much perturbed by the state of his wound. The tom was in bright spirits about the whole affair, laughing and joking about the incident as he was hastily hauled into the medicine den by several of his Clanmates.

This was how Whitepaw found himself involved. By chance of circumstance, he was the only medicine cat in the Clan at the time, his mentor off elsewhere, leaving him to bear the full brunt of responsibility with tending to a severely injured warrior.

He was young for his age, much younger than Foxpelt in fact, but he was also highly regarded among the Clan for his adeptness with herbs which led many of the older cats to see him as a prodigy in the making. That was the only thing that prompted them to allow him to treat Foxpelt. His reputation made them blindly trust him to a fault. And by extent gave him the courage to go through with the procedure.

He rummaged through storage while mentally listing off the supplies he would need, during which time Foxpelt was animatedly chatting from behind him.

"You should've seen how I soared onto its back, Whitepaw. Clawed it something fierce, I did!"

A bright glow gleamed in the young warrior's eyes as he proudly recounted the skirmish. The fervor in which he spoke about the events was near infectious in nature.

"How're you holding up?" Whitepaw called from over his shoulder.

"Completely fine," Foxpelt responded back quite cheerily. "Can't even feel where it bit me," he said with a laugh.

Maybe that was what lowered his guard when he finally approached him with the bundle of supplies. That statement there, along with Foxpelt's relaxed poise.

"You'll be fine," Whitepaw confidently told the warrior, unknowing of what the future held in store for the two of them.

And how could he have known? There was never any indication given he was in over his head until it was too late.

"Don't worry, I trust you," Foxpelt smiled, meeting the medicine cat's eyes.

He'd heard of Whitepaw's reputation through word of mouth and about how exceptional the young apprentice supposedly was for his age. In Foxpelt's eyes, if someone like Whitepaw existed in the Clan than surely it must be a blessing from StarClan itself.

The wound itself was difficult to view. There was just so much blood to contend with intermixed in Foxpelt's fur that Whitepaw busied himself with attempting to clean it so he could get a clear inspection of the damage. What he found gravely troubled him. Why were portions of Foxpelt's ribcage viewable?

Another question at that point could've been how one cat could be so lively and coherent while a significant part of their flesh lay missing from their body?

An unfortunate chain of events spiraled out of control from there when Foxpelt's adrenaline from the battle finally wore off. Pain had started to seep in now and things were becoming uncomfortable with just how much blood he was actually losing. By now his nest was completely soaked in it.

Low moans came from the red warrior as Whitepaw pressed cobwebs over the gaping hole in his side. Blood swarmed the webbing instantly, dissolving it up in a sea of crimson. Trying to not let the moment overwhelm him, Whitepaw pressed on, applying more cobwebs, which were just as quickly immersed in the red waters and reduced to nothing.

What was he doing wrong? Whitepaw had followed step by step the exact same process he'd watched his mentor preform on other cats. In each instant the cobwebs had sustained and halted the bleeding, so why wasn't that happening with him now!

Foxpelt's head had rolled back, hanging limply to the side as the now lethargic tom lay staring through half lidded eyes.

"Everything's going to be okay, Foxpelt," he called out, not believing his own words. He had to do something. He needed to say anything in that moment to let him known that he was still trying. Whitepaw was right there for him.

The warrior's ear gave a twitch, indicating that some part of him had registered Whitepaw's words. He held onto that lifeline with every fiber of his being and plowed on with the cobwebs, stacking them on top of each other and pressing down hard to stanch the bleeding as blood stained his paws in the process.

Without notice, Whitepaw suddenly found himself up to his forelegs drenched in Foxpelt's blood. He had never seen so much in his life. To think that a cat's body contained as much as this was staggering. The bleeding refused to ebb, despite Whitepaw's best effort.

He had begun to panic now, his emotions taking reign, as it became clearly apparent that there was nothing he could. He had been rendered completely useless.

"Hey, Foxpelt!" he called out, suddenly shaking the warrior's limp form.

The red tom was no longer moving. His body lay prone while his eyes hung listlessly open, staring off into nothing.

For Whitepaw it was though StarClan itself had told him he'd failed.

"Hey, Foxpelt! Hey! Answer me! Foxpelt, answer me!"

There was shouting. Frantic and shattered in such an unrecognizable manner that it was only later that Whitepaw understood that he was the one responsible for it. The shouting only continued on, never stopping. Endless and eternal.

There was a tumult of paws from outside the medicine den forcing its way in sometime afterwards, but Whitepaw barely acknowledge any of it. He was too devastated to comprehend much of anything in that moment. Foxpelt was now dead. And he had allowed it to happen. It was all his fault.


End file.
